Chapter 18: Steam rises as Silas presses Izzy's face-first against the shower wall, his calloused hands gripping her rounded hips while his cock drives deep - the water washing away their mingled fluids only for him to fill her again, his teeth sinking into her shoulder as he murmurs filthy promises about knocking her up a second time before the first even arrives.
He carried her through the quiet house, her naked body damp and pliant in his arms. The cool air of the hallway was a shock after the humid heat of the porch, raising goosebumps on her skin. She buried her face in the corded strength of his neck, breathing him in, the scent of their sex and the night air clinging to them both.
The master bathroom was a world away from the weathered porch. Soft, recessed lighting glowed against marble tiles, and the air held the faint, clean scent of lavender from the expensive soap she liked. In the center of the room, the massive, claw-foot tub stood empty, but Silas moved past it towards the walk-in shower, a glass-walled enclosure large enough for four.
He didn’t set her down. He stepped inside, still holding her, and reached with one hand to turn the knobs. A cascade of water erupted from the wide, rainfall showerhead, quickly filling the enclosure with billowing clouds of steam.
The first spray was lukewarm, then quickly heated, pelting their skin. It sluiced over her back, washing the evidence of their passion from her thighs. He finally let her legs drop, but only to spin her and press her front against the cool, wet tile wall. The contrast of the heated water on her back and the chill of the wall against her breasts and belly made her gasp.
His body covered hers from behind, a solid, immovable force. His hands slid from her hips up to her shoulders, pinning her in place. His erection, already hard again, pressed insistently against the cleft of her ass.
“Still dirty,” he murmured into her ear, his voice a low vibration she felt through her bones. His hands moved down, over the curve of her ass, spreading her. “My come is still leaking out of you. Gonna wash you clean. Gonna get you dirty all over again.”
She pushed back against him, a wordless plea. The tile was rough against her nipples, a delicious friction. He reached around her, his hand sliding between her legs, his fingers finding her clit, already swollen and hypersensitive from her last climax. He rubbed slow, torturous circles.
“This pussy is still throbbing for me, isn’t it?” he growled, his teeth grazing her shoulder. “It thinks it’s done. It’s wrong. It’s never done with me.”
“No,” she moaned, her head falling back against his chest. “It’s never done.”
His fingers left her, and she whimpered at the loss. But then she felt the broad, slick head of his cock nudge against her entrance. He was so thick, and she was so sensitized, every nerve ending screaming. He didn’t ask. He just pushed.
The stretch was exquisite, a burning, full feeling that made her cry out, the sound swallowed by the drumming water. He filled her completely, his hips flush against her ass, his grip on her shoulders tightening.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his body going rigid for a moment as he savored the tight, wet heat of her. “This cunt was made for me. This pregnant, greedy cunt.”
Then he began to move. Slow, deep, punishing thrusts that drove the air from her lungs. The water cascaded over them, plastering her curls to her back, running in rivulets down the hard planes of his chest and stomach. The sound of their bodies meeting, a wet, rhythmic slap, echoed off the marble and glass, mingling with the spray.
“You feel that?” he grunted, picking up the pace, his balls slapping against her with each powerful drive. “You feel how deep I am? I’m in your womb. I’m claiming what’s already mine.”
His words were filth, but they were her gospel. “Yes!” she cried out, her fingers splaying against the slick tile for support. “Deeper, Silas. Please.”
He obliged, hammering into her with a raw, animalistic rhythm that shattered her thoughts. One of his hands left her shoulder and tangled in her hair, pulling her head back, arching her spine, exposing her throat to the hot water and his biting kisses. The other hand slid around her hip, his fingers finding her clit again, rubbing it in frantic, perfect circles.
The dual assault was too much. Her orgasm ripped through her, a seismic wave of pleasure that made her knees buckle. She screamed, her internal muscles clamping down on his driving cock in violent, milking spasms.
Her climax triggered his. With a guttural roar that seemed to shake the very glass walls, he slammed into her one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and poured into her, his release a hot, pulsing flood that mixed with the shower water running down her thighs. “Mine!” he snarled, his body shuddering against hers. “My wife. My fucking life.”
They stood like that for a long time, joined, breathing in ragged unison under the relentless spray. Slowly, he softened inside her, his grip on her hair gentling to a caress. He turned her in his arms, his dark eyes searching hers, his thumbs wiping away water and tears from her cheeks.
He reached for a bar of soap, the lavender scent blooming in the steam. He worked it into a lather in his hands and began to wash her with a shocking tenderness. He smoothed the suds over her shoulders, down the curve of her back, over the proud swell of her stomach. He washed between her legs, his touch clinical yet reverent, cleaning away the proof of his possession.
She did the same for him, her small hands sliding over the hard landscape of his chest, the tapestry of old scars and new tattoos, the powerful muscles of his arms and back. She washed the dirt from beneath his nails, the same nails that had dug into her hips moments before.
When they were clean, he turned off the water. The sudden silence was profound, broken only by their breathing and the drip of water from their bodies. He wrapped her in a large, plush towel, rubbing her dry with a focused intensity before seeing to himself.
He led her to the bed, pulling back the covers. She slid in, her body feeling heavy, used, and utterly at peace. He climbed in beside her, drawing her back against his chest, his hand splaying over her stomach where their son slept.
“The blanket,” he said into the darkness, his voice a quiet rumble. “You’ll figure it out.”
She smiled, placing her hand over his. “I will.”
His next words were so low she almost missed them. “They found a body in the river. Downtown. A man. He had… connections.”
The peace shattered. The real world, his world, bled into their sanctuary like a stain. She went still, waiting.
“It’s nothing for you to worry about,” he said, his arm tightening around her. “It’s just a reminder. That I can’t ever truly be just a man on a farm. That this…” He squeezed her, a possessive, desperate gesture. “This is the only peace I get.”
She turned in his arms to face him. In the dim light, his eyes were black, unreadable pools. She saw the ghost in them then, the killer he had been, the ghost he would always be. She didn’t flinch. She brought her hand to his face, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw.
“Then it’s enough,” she whispered, her voice steady. “You are my husband. This is our peace. And I’m not letting anything take it from us.”
She kissed him, a soft, lingering promise against his lips. He let out a long, slow breath, the tension in his body gradually seeping away. He pulled her closer, tucking her head under his chin, and they lay in the dark, two ghosts holding onto the only real thing they had ever known.
He held her like that until dawn, their breathing syncing into a single rhythm in the quiet dark. The memory of the body in the river lingered like a chill in the room, but it was overshadowed by the solid reality of his arms around her. She slept, finally, dreaming of yellow yarn and quiet fields.
Two months bled together in a hazy, contented blur. The buttery yellow blanket for their son was finished, a little imperfect but soft and warm, folded neatly in the oak crib. A larger, darker one, thick and cable-knitted, lived on the couch where Silas would sprawl after dinner, his fingers tracing the ridges she had made. Her body continued to change, her belly a tight, round globe, her breasts heavy and veined. The nursery was a sanctuary of preparedness, stocked with diapers, tiny clothes, and a plush rocking chair where she imagined feeding their son.
The specter of his old life seemed to have receded, a closed ledger on a forgotten shelf. Their life was built on a new foundation of love and a safety so profound it felt like a separate entity living with them. Her emotions, however, were a tempest, swinging from joyful tears to irrational fury in a heartbeat. He met each storm with a calm that should have been infuriating but was instead her anchor. He would talk her down, his voice a low rumble, or he would love her through it, his body a worshipful distraction that left her boneless and serene.
It was on one such turbulent afternoon that she went to his office to put away a stack of freshly laundered onesies. The door was ajar, and his voice, clipped and professional, stopped her in the hallway. “Just move the assets to the Zurich account. No, the procedure remains the same.” A woman’s laugh, throaty and familiar, trickled through the speakerphone. “Always so serious, Silas. You know, a little gratitude wouldn’t kill you. I did just make you a obscenely richer man.”
Izzy’s blood went cold. The woman’s tone was intimate, comfortable, laced with a flirtation that spoke of a shared history. She stood frozen, a tiny white onesie crumpled in her fist, as Silas ended the call with a terse, “The transfer is the gratitude. Goodbye.” The click of the receiver was deafening.
He turned and saw her. The change in his face was immediate, from focused neutrality to concerned awareness. “Sweetheart?”
“Who the fuck was that?” The words ripped out of her, raw and shaking.
“A financial liaison. It’s not important.” He stood, his movements deliberately slow.
“Don’t you fucking lie to me!” she screamed, the sound tearing at her throat. “Why was she talking to you like that? Like she knows you? Like she’s fucked you?” Tears were streaming down her face now, hot and blinding. “Are you cheating on me? On us? Why is some random bitch so comfortable flirting with my husband?”
“Izzy, breathe.” He took a step towards her, his hands raised in a placating gesture she’d never seen from him before. It made her insane.
“Don’t tell me to breathe! You bastard! You lying bastard!” She threw the onesie at him, a pathetic white missile. The months of hormonal chaos, the latent fear from the night he told her about the river, all of it coalesced into a blinding, reckless fury. She turned and ran.
“Isabella! Stop!”
She heard his roar but didn’t listen, bursting through the front door and into the late afternoon light. Her pregnant body was clumsy, but adrenaline fueled her, carrying her across the lawn and into the tree line. Branches snagged her hair and clothes. She heard him behind her, his footsteps crashing through the undergrowth, his voice a blade of pure panic. “The traps, goddammit! Stop!”
A sharp crack sounded to her left, the sound of a sprung snare. It barely registered. Her lungs burned. A root caught her foot and she stumbled, her hands flying out to break her fall. He was on her in an instant, his arms locking around her waist, lifting her from the ground as if she weighed nothing.
“You stupid, reckless woman,” he snarled into her ear, his breath hot with fear and fury as he carried her back to the house. She fought him, scratching, cursing, her sobs becoming ragged, broken things.
He kicked the front door shut and didn’t set her down until they were in the bedroom. Then he ripped her sundress, the sound of tearing cotton a final punctuation to her hysteria. “You ran into the woods. You put our son in danger for a fucking phone call.” His eyes were black pits, his control frayed into something dangerous. “You will never. Do that. Again.”
“Fuck you!” she spat, still struggling as he pushed her onto the bed.
He used strips of soft cloth from the nursery, tying her wrists to the headboard with brutal efficiency. He looped another around her ankles, pulling her legs apart and anchoring them to the footposts, arching her body, exposing her completely. She was naked, splayed and vulnerable, her huge belly a mound between them.
“You need to remember who keeps you safe,” he said, his voice low and deadly. His hand came down on her ass cheek with a sharp crack that stole her breath. The pain was immediate, a bright, shocking sting. “You belong to me.”
He spanked her again, harder. “Your life belongs to me.” Another slap, on the other side, painting her skin with fire. “His life,” he growled, his palm connecting with a wet smack right over her sit-spots, “belongs to me.”
She cried out, a mix of pain and shame, but on the next strike, a moan slipped out. The sharp sting was spreading, warming, sinking deep and transforming into a throbbing heat that pooled between her legs. Her cursing turned into ragged pleas, but she didn’t know what she was begging for.
He didn’t stop. He read the change in her body, the way her hips twitched towards his hand, the slickness he could now smell. He spanked her over and over, the rhythm relentless, until the fight was utterly gone from her and only a raw, aching need remained. “I’m sorry,” she finally whimpered, the words real this time. “I’ll never do it again. I’m sorry, Silas.”
He stilled, his hand resting on the heated, reddened skin of her ass. He leaned over her, his mouth close to her ear. “Good girl.”
Then his head disappeared between her legs. His tongue, flat and demanding, licked a broad stripe through her slick folds. She cried out, her body bowing against the restraints. He ate her with a focused intensity, his tongue circling her clit, delving into her entrance, drinking the evidence of her arousal. The contrast was devastating—the throbbing, heated pain in her ass and the exquisite, building pleasure between her legs. He was punishing and rewarding her all at once, and she came apart under his mouth, screaming his name as the orgasm ripped through her, a seismic surrender that left her trembling and utterly his.
Her screams faded into whimpers, the last tremors of her climax still echoing through her bound body. He moved up her form, his hands working quickly at the knots securing her wrists and ankles. The cloth fell away, and she gasped as blood rushed back into her limbs, the sensation sharp and tingling.
He turned her onto her stomach, his palm smoothing over the heated, reddened skin of her ass. The touch was possessive, almost reverent. “You took that so well, Sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice a low thrum of approval. “Your skin is on fire for me. You wear my discipline perfectly.”
Then he was shifting her, rolling her onto her back and spreading her legs with an unyielding pressure. He positioned himself between her thighs, his cock, thick and rigid, nudging against her slick, swollen entrance. He didn’t tease. He drove into her in one brutal, deep thrust that stole the air from her lungs and made her back arch off the mattress.
“You. Are. Mine.” Each word was a punch of air, synchronized with a hard, jarring pump of his hips. His hands clamped down on her shoulders, pinning her in place. “You will never run from me again. You will never put what’s mine in danger. Do you understand?” His rhythm was punishing, a relentless piston designed to brand his words into her very soul. “This cunt, this womb, they belong to me.”
“Yes!” she cried, her nails digging into his forearms, her body already coiling tight again around the delicious, brutal friction. “I’m yours! Only yours!” She could feel his control fraying, his thrusts becoming wilder, more desperate. The slap of their wet skin filled the room, a raw, primal music. “I’m gonna come, Silas. Please, come with me.”
He growled, a feral, guttural sound, and slammed into her one last time, his body shuddering as he emptied himself deep inside her. Her own orgasm crashed over her a second later, a blinding, convulsing wave that milked his cock until he was spent. They collapsed together, a tangled, sweating mess of limbs and shared breath.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged panting. Then she turned her head, her lips finding his jaw in a soft, apologetic kiss. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. “I don’t know why I did that. Why I get so… crazy. It’s like I can’t control it.”
His hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb wiping away a stray tear. “It’s my claim on you,” he said, his voice softer now, his gaze dropping to the pronounced swell of her stomach. “This. I’ve marked you, Izzy. The pregnancy… it rewires you. It makes the emotions run hotter, closer to the surface.” He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. “It’s okay. But you can never, ever put yourself and our child in danger again. Promise me.”
“I promise,” she breathed, the words a solemn vow. “I promise.”
He held her then, his arms wrapping around her, one hand splayed protectively over her belly. He felt the solid kick of their son beneath his palm, a reminder of what was at stake. They lay in silence for a while, the room darkening around them as dusk settled. Just as her eyes began to grow heavy, he spoke again, his voice cutting through the comfortable haze.
“You’re having the baby here,” he stated, the words leaving no room for argument. “In this room. I’m delivering him.”
She went still in his arms. “What?”
“I’ve been studying,” he continued, his tone matter-of-fact, clinical. “I have the manuals, the videos, the supplies. Everything we could need. I don’t want any other hands on our child if it’s not absolutely necessary. No hospitals. No strangers. Only ours.”
She looked up at him, seeing the absolute certainty in his dark eyes. This was not a suggestion; it was a decision made long ago. A part of her wanted to protest, to voice the flicker of fear, but the larger part, the part that trusted him with her life, simply nodded. “Whatever you want,” she whispered, her hand stroking his chest. “You’re the daddy.”
The word hung in the air between them. His eyes darkened, the pupils dilating. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. “Say that again.”
“Daddy,” she repeated, letting the word roll off her tongue, low and seductive. She saw the immediate effect it had on him, the way his body tightened against hers.
A low growl rumbled in his chest. “That’s what you call me now.” As he spoke, he rolled on top of her again, his hardened length pressing against her thigh. He guided himself back to her entrance, still slick from their last joining, and pushed inside with a single, deep thrust that made her cry out and arch against him.
“Say it,” he demanded, setting a rough, punishing rhythm that shook the bed.
“Daddy,” she moaned, the word a broken chant as he filled her. “Oh, God, Daddy.” She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting his thrusts with a frantic energy of her own. “Fuck me, Daddy. Please.”
He drove into her, his possessiveness ignited anew by the title, by the sheer filth of it on her lips. “This is my pussy, understand? Daddy’s pussy.” His words were gritted out between thrusts, each one a brutal reminder of his ownership. She could only nod, her own climax building rapidly, spurred by the raw dominance in his voice and the relentless friction deep inside her.
“I’m gonna come, Daddy!” she screamed, her body seizing up.
“Come for me,” he snarled, and with a final, deep plunge, he spilled into her, his own release triggering hers in a shattering, simultaneous climax that left them both breathless and trembling.
He didn’t pull out immediately. He stayed buried inside her, his weight a comforting pressure as he rolled them to their sides, keeping her close. His arms encircled her, one hand resting on the curve of her stomach, holding both her and their son. She nestled back against him, her body exhausted, sated, and utterly safe. As her breathing evened out into the soft, slow rhythm of sleep, he held his world in his arms, his gaze fixed on the dark window, watching over his family.